Song of Synne
by naienko
Summary: You didn't really think Thor was going to take on his brother alone, did you? No, Thor knows a little too much about what Loki has been doing to be on Earth without any backup. Loki's wife Sigyn was not originally named Sigyn. I took some Avengers movie, some Thor movie, some Norse mythology, some Marvel comics, added some crack of my own making, and this is the result.
1. Chapter 1

"Can you see him?" I ask, looking out over the broken edge of the rainbow known as Bifrost. "Where he has gone?"

Heimdall does not answer for long moments. He holds a stillness I have only ever known him to be able to achieve, seeming not even to breathe. I know his senses range far across the realms, throughout the Nine Worlds and beyond, from my own Vanaheimr to Svartalfheimr, but I do not know if he can see where Loki has fallen.

"I see him," Heimdall says, his deep voice threading into my reverie seamlessly. If any here know my plans, it would be he, but he is the last who would prevent me, as well.

"How far?"

"Very far."

I close my eyes. They are green, but not green like Loki's. My eyes are the golden green of sunlight through new leaves. Loki's eyes are shadowed forest pools.

If it sounds as though I love him, it is true. I do. I have. I will.

He speaks of being in his brother's shadow, always - although light is my nature as lightning is Thor's, I always followed Loki's shadow. No - these Midgardian metaphors are difficult. I shadowed him, from afar. No - I cannot make this clear. Only listen, and you will see.

I close my eyes, and leap.

* * *

I don't know what to expect. Perpetual falling, down the star-streams of night? Immeasurable squeezing, down the wormholes through the fabric of space-time? Will it hurt?

It is a bit like both. It does hurt, but it is not the physical pain I expected. It is a pain of separation, of absence; something is deeply iwrong/i. I carom through the universe, bouncing and spinning and whirling; stars pass me by, or I pass them by, in groups and clusters and galaxies, and ahead of me on the shrieking of the stellar winds I can hear Loki.

Screaming.

Endlessly.

I give chase; no more aimless drifting and slipping but movement with purpose, strand by strand from star to star.

This is agelessly familiar; I have always followed him. Our youthful pranks were always led by him, though I suppose I did my fair share of enabling. Once we switched Volstagg's favourite spices for Hogun's mother's super-hot spices, then replaced all the kegs with solid blocks of wood (I ached for a week after, but, oh, was it worth it). We tricked Sif into shaving her head, we hid the spear Gungnir, we lured Fandral into an assignation with a svartalfr, we turned Hogun's mace into a bouquet of roses. We spiked all the tobacco with explosive powder.

We learnt to fight together.

Loki only ever let me see him after a bout with Thor once. He tried so hard to be what he thought Odin's son should be. His body was bruised, his mouth bloody, but his eyes ... oh, his eyes were full of frustration. But Loki was ever private with his pain, and his heart was already guarded.

He had yet to learn that you cannot guard from what is already within you. As I was.

Sif and I were young girls together, almost before she ever conceived the thought of a warrior maiden. As her first steps with sword and staff, shield and bow, so mine with speech and spell, song and gesture. And so my meeting with Loki.

From the first, no other could match his skill. I imagine, as I fall, that some now say that should have been a clue to his true heritage, forgetting the power that dances in Frigga's blood as well, from whence we all knew it came. As Thor is so clearly Odin's son, so we believed Loki held true to his mother's line. For all I know now, that may yet be fact. Certainly no other has more information than I, save Odin Allfather himself, who lies yet in his sleep.

Yet for all his skill with spell, Loki's desperate desire to emulate his brother in the arts of war did much to push many of us, his fellows, away. His rank often did the rest. I do not say Loki was shunned by his peers, only that he was often distant, and much solitary. I think it was this habit of his that first drew my attention, for I am ever curious. I took to following him, first by scrying, then invisibly, and when he began to practise fetches, and warding, I would twist my spells to follow his essence. He told me later how he was aware of my magic, as if a faint spotlight was always trained on him.

It became a game, him to hide and I to find, and for long months we did not speak of it, or each other, nor to each other save what might be required in the lessoning. The day it came to an end, I followed him, by my arts and skills (I fondly hoped) invisible and undetectable, into the farthest treasure hall of Asgard. It was not a place I had yet been, nor sought to go, though there was no reason I should be denied entrance. Thus I had no awareness that my youthful spells were stripped from me by the virtues of the hall until Loki turned from his study and his green eyes fell upon me.

I knew in that moment he saw me true, and pride straightened my spine; I am as fearless as any warrior born, though my talents lie elsewhere.

"You are Synne, of the Vanir, are you not?" he asked, as polite and cool as if we met by chance in the feasting hall far above. I bowed my acknowledgement, pushing my tumbled blonde curls back over my shoulders with both hands as I rose.

"And you are Loki, son of Odin and brother of Thor," I returned, determined to be no less honourable than he. He flourished a bow in return, but could not hold his solemnity and broke into a wide grin. Our laughter woke echoes in the hall and from that moment was our friendship sealed.

As ever his heart yearned to follow his brother, but it was to me he turned in moments of quietude. My magic healed his battle-wounds, and together we began to build that style of combat which was his alone, best suited to his lithe quickness and agile mind. I saw the restlessness of the younger son begin to work itself deep into his nature.

For all the love between the two brothers, some things may not be shared between siblings.


	2. Chapter 2

He can hear the whispers.

He cannot remember a time when he could not hear the whispers, around him. There is no silence for him.

Sometimes he cannot make out what they are saying, and he conjures words in his mind. Other times, the speech is all too clear, and he longs desperately for the unintelligible susurrus, which is terrible, but hurts less. Always, always, even when he is alone, he knows there are eyes upon him.

How could there not be? He is a prince of Asgard.

He does not know if he can be what they expect of him. Even if there were not - Thor - he fears he would fail to live up to the expectations of his people. As it is, how could he not falter in comparison to his mighty brother, so obvious an exemplar of Asgardian values?

He wishes to be a skald, fears he suffices only as a jester. What worth his skills in seithr to a society whose highest value is combat? It is long since a man's magic drew the derogatory epithet argr, but he hears it hissed in dark corners.

Why can they not value him for what he is? Truly, he does not wish to compete with his brother for the throne; he wishes, childishly, that his father could rule forever. Underneath that wish, though, is the dread of Thor's ascent to the throne.

He is beginning to be called Silver-tongue, for his wit and skill at deception, but he does not ever lie to himself. His brother is mighty, but he is rash, and hasty, and disinclined to listen to counsel, even from his brother. These are not qualities sought in a king.

Yet what can he do? Any word he speaks is considered by most to be envy of his brother. And his father is so tired. Sometimes it shocks him, how very tired his father is. He dares not add to Odin's burden.

All he wants, truly, is for life to be easy. Simple. Pleasant. To be honoured for his own skills, not merely as Thor's brother, Odin's son. Something for himself.

Maybe then the whispers would stop. Maybe then he could stop comparing himself, ceaselessly, to all he knows, and falling short. 


	3. Chapter 3

We are sprawled together on Loki's enormous pale bearskin, which together we had hunted and caught, in a traditional way for once, his sword and my seithr (and how pleased was Odin Allfather as we dragged the carcass back to the palace) - we are sprawled before the fire, and he is lecturing me about shapeshifting, a skill which he has mastered and I have not. But I have stopped paying attention to the words, and I listen only to the smooth flow of his voice. Already he is being called Silver-tongue, for the elegant shapes of his words and honed perfection of tone.

For myself, I do not think often on Loki's voice. I only revel in it, as flowers do in sunlight.

"Synne?" The change of tone is what captures my attention. My awareness slips back to reality from fantasies I hesitate to admit, and I realise that I am staring at him, and he is very close. I hope desperately that he thinks the heat of my face due only to the flames, and something small, and new, and precious inside wonders if it would be so bad for him to think differently.

I can't bear to look away from his eyes now, so green against his pale skin, even paler framed by black hair. I'm sure everything I'm thinking is written on my face. I've never yearned for a mind-reading spell so much in my life.

"You look so serious," he says now, frowning very slightly. "Were you even listening to me, Synne? Though you struggle with these spells, I did not think it required such concentration. Where has your thought gone?"

"I did let my mind wander," I reply slowly.

"Your gaze ... I thought for a moment ... but it is of no moment." Loki smiles at me, and it is almost his familiar grin, full of mischief, but it has an edge now, an edge that is both new and familiar. It is the smile he wears, these days, as he accompanies Thor, and the Warriors Three, and my old companion Sif, now a warrior among warriors. I pretend to myself that only I, of Loki's friends, see him most truly.

I return his smile, and ungovernable instinct leads me to say, "What did you think I was thinking of, Loki?"

"Me," he whispers, so low I can ignore it if I wish, and I realise, tardily, what that edge on his smile is made of.

It is always being second. It is learning seithr, and being half-shamed that his aptitude is for magic and not combat. It is feeling inferior, and always comparing himself to his brother, and always, always wanting to be more and not knowing how.

And now there is a new thing I want deeply, more than anything in my life, and it is to blunt that edge on Loki's smile and blot the sadness from his eyes. Nothing but the snap of the fire fills the room now, and if I let myself think about what it is I am going to do, it won't happen, so I don't think, I just lean upward and hold Loki's gaze, and brush his lips with mine. Almost instantly his arms are about my shoulders, and everything fierce and hungry fills the kiss.

I want to laugh, tasting the desire he pours into the meeting of our mouths and yet the restraint he is exercising not to simply take control. If there is anything a daughter of the Vanir knows, it is seithr and sex. This may be my first personal taste of the latter, but I am not uninformed, merely inexperienced. When Loki lets go, I know, it will be as so much else between us, a heady struggle for leadership.

For myself, merely initiating this kiss is all the letting go I need. Everything is Loki and there is no more pain. Trusting my weight to his grip, I wrap my hands into his hair, growing long and curling about his shoulders, and set my teeth gently into his lip. The gasp he makes into my mouth is very rewarding. I can feel his shoulders beginning to tremble, and even as he is returning the favour he lowers me to the rug and braces his hands either side of my head.

"Synne, are you sure?" There is _so much_ tangled in his tone, wonder and fear and anguish and yearning and need, it is almost a blow. "Is it not my brother you want?"

This, now, is foolishness, and I intend to make certain he knows it. I mind myself of a trick or two Sif has taught me, and turn the tables on Loki. His shock at my manoeuvre is plainly writ on his face as I kneel over his prone body. I laugh, soft and low, and stroke my fingertips down his chest. Beneath my hand, his jerkin and tunic fade away, leaving naught but undershirt. Bending over until our noses touch, I whisper, "Your brother doesn't deserve me, Loki Odinsson."

"And so I do?" His tone is sardonic, but without the cutting edge with which he is wont to flay the slower-witted in Asgard.

A smile crinkles my eyes. I remind him, drawing back slightly, "I could quite easily fend off any unwanted advance by your so ... impetuous brother. He has made none."

"As to that, neither have I," Loki ripostes.

"Until now," I say. "You appreciate me, and I appreciate you. Let us form a mutual appreciation society, and leave your brother out of it." I do not leave him time to argue further; the war of words is one in which Loki revels, but it is not that type of combat in which I wish to engage. So I stop his mouth with mine.

There is no question of force when he responds enthusiastically, pulling me down to him. There are no worthy comparisons for the way his mouth tastes, or the caress of his hands along my bare skin. I smile into this kiss, recognising the same spell with which I partially disrobed him but a moment before. Spilling me over onto the rug again, he smooths hair out of my face and presses kisses into my hairline before rising over me, silhouetted against the firelight.

It throws golden shadows onto his white skin and lays a canny, cat-like sheen in his green eyes. "You are so beautiful, Loki," I murmur, breathlessly watching him remove the rest of his clothing. Every inch revealed makes me long to possess him that much more, to exchange marks and dominances and every other thing we can think of.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," he says, sly, and I laugh and tell him, "You are a delight to my eyes. No one else matters."

For that I earn another kiss, slow and hot and probing. The flicker of desire that fuels my daydreams is swiftly being fanned into conflagration; I _want_ Loki. I let my eyes slip closed and learn him with my fingertips - the soft arch of his ears, perfectly sloping down to the line of his throat; the hollow of his collarbones, too thin in some eyes but perfectly suited to his lean build. The faint marks of combat-scars on his arms, some of them made by me, stand out like brands under the blind sensitivity of my hands. With the lightest possible touch I glide down over his chest, tracing the outline of muscles in his abdomen, and feel him tremble.

All the while, he is lavishing my upper body with kisses, shaping the line of my jaw with his lips, gently biting at my earlobe, licking the hollow behind my ear and drawing his teeth down the curve of my shoulders. A faint hum of magic accompanies the tingle of tiny sparks along the nerves of my collarbone. "Look at me," Loki whispers against my skin, and so I do.

His eyes are enormous and crystal-dark, his mouth flushed pink, and I cannot help the hum that escapes me. It brings a smile to his face, different than any I have ever seen, and which I cannot describe. His hands capture mine, pressing them against the floor. I resist, to start with, but he gives a minute shake of his head, and I allow him to overpower me.

"What are you doing?" I ask laughingly. My hands are pinioned, but my legs are free, and I twine them about his calves, tracing with my toes idle runic patterns. He lays his forehead against mine, and his hair, dark as a starless night, falls to curtain our faces.

"I wish to possess you," he murmurs, his tone rough.

"And yet you hesitate, and restrain me," I tease, kissing the tip of his nose.

"I ... " he begins, and falters into silence.

Intuitively, I think he must feel the same as I: there is ever trepidation when embarking on a thing never before attempted. "I, too," I tell him, very quietly. "But I had rather not beg. No thought of consequence has ever given you pause before; shall it now?"

"No," he responds sharply, challenge-light flaring in his eyes.

My smile curves in response, and I use my legs to pull him closer to me, though my arms are yet held in his grip. Our hips meet, and his eyes roll closed at the sensation. There is heat and pressure and wetness in even this limited joining, and I rock my hips into it. "Please," I whisper involuntarily, "please, Loki."

"Not here," he manages at last, releasing my wrists to support himself over me. "You deserve better than the floor, Synne of the Vanir." A twist of his hips and thighs frees him from the cage of my legs, and he thrusts himself to a kneeling position at my side. "My Synne," he says tenderly, and pulls me up into his arms.

I bury my face in his hair, breathing in deeply. My heart is pounding, my limbs trembling. Despite my mother's teaching, I nearly feel my body has betrayed me with this near-uncontrollable desire. We kneel, clasped each in the other's hold, for a brief moment.

Then Loki springs to his feet, pulling me along, and I do not resist, and we stumble along the floor, pausing every few steps to plunge into heady kisses, our hands seeking every opportunity to touch the other. In the shadowy reaches of Loki's rooms, I cannot see the low bed until he tumbles me upon it, crawling up the length of my naked body.

The heat of our closeness is nigh unbearable. His long fingers wrap around my hips, and I fumble to grasp and direct his phallus. Poised, we pause, gazing, hardly daring to breathe.

Then he pulls my hips upward to meet his, and slides deep within me. Every fibre of my being focusses to that point of meeting, and I am distantly aware of lunging toward his descending mouth and locking my arms about his neck. He is growling, faintly, deep in his throat, and I cannot resist giggling into the kiss. Loki nips at my mouth, each one punctuated by a thrust, and it doesn't take very long before I am helpless to giggle, moaning into his chest and curving my fingertips into his shoulders.

We ride a rhythm like the wild crashing of the seas, and the tension I feel gathering in my body I can liken only to the thrumming of the Bifrost's power. I find myself grasping his hair, and half our kisses, frantic and gasping, land far elsewhere than mouths. Loki's eyes, green and black and fierce, remain fixed to my face, and mine to his.

Freeing one hand, Loki brushes his fingertips along my cheek and traces into my hair. His pace slows. "Synne, ah Synne," he whispers, and the pleasure the slower pace engenders in me is excruciating. I know we have come to this joining untouched by any other, and I cannot think enough to comprehend how he came by this knowledge of how to please a woman. I throw my head back against the thrilling of my nerves.

Somehow, Loki manages to roll us over, and now I ride above him, and he thrusts up into me, bringing a new blaze of ecstasy into my body. Now that he need no longer support himself above me, his hands roam my skin, tracing runes over breasts and abdomen and sliding over my hips. I reach one hand toward him, and he clasps it tightly and brings it to his lips, dragging kisses full of teeth over my knuckles.

I bite my lip, overwhelmed by sensation, and once again throw my head back, trailing my hair along his thighs. I feel him chuckle against our joined hands, then his other hand is between my parted thighs, doing I know not what. I know only that in conjunction with his phallus within me and his mouth against my fingers, I am utterly drowned in sensation, and the coiled tension whiplashes up my body.

His name tumbles from my mouth as I climax, and mine draws him pulsing within me, his lips shaping my name against my hand.

Gasping, I struggle not to collapse against Loki, but he draws me down to rest on his heaving chest. I nestle my face into the curve of his neck, kissing away the fine sweat there. One arm holds fast about my shoulders. He brings his other hand to his lips, licking at the fingertips, and I cannot help hiding my blushes.

His body vibrates with his laugh, even while he repositions us once more, side by side and facing one another. The motion disengages our bodies and I whimper. Loki's hand to my mouth silences me. He tips my face up just enough to capture my mouth in a passionate kiss, and another tremble wracks my body.

"I do not know what to say to you," he murmurs, breaking the kiss. I put my hand into his, and smile in utter happiness.

"Whatsoever is said of your skill with a sword in combat, you and I will know of your prowess with the sword of the loins," I whisper.

His eyebrows arc upward in surprise before a pleased smile curls his mouth. "I don't know how to return that compliment," he tells me.

"Then put your mouth to better use," I suggest.

Smiling with more contentment than I have seen in a long time, Loki complies.


	4. Chapter 4

He has been aware of Synne watching him for a long time, as if suddenly a new and kinder spotlight were focussed on him. It is little trouble to manufacture an encounter in a location inimical to spellwork, to trap the girl so he can probe her intentions.

It's something of a shock to him to discover just how completely transparent she is, how utterly guileless. It's unfamiliar ... and desperately welcome. A friend. A friend with no ulterior motives, no creeping desires. He latches on to it with the vigour of a drowning man for water, and nurturing the relationship is easy.

Not like his relationships with the Warriors Three (impossibly grandiose name for the trio of fighters that follow his brother's every whim) or his relationship with Sif; struggling, stunted things centred around the training rings and his combat-mad brother. His frustrating, golden brother. That relationship doesn't bear thinking about.

Yet somehow Synne coaxes it out of him, slowly; with her simple silences, slyly worded questions, merry laughter, and continuous, unflagging interest in him, over his brother. He can't remember a time when he has been the focus of someone's sole attention in a good way, though he knows it must have happened. He does notice, over time, that she never takes sides. So a seed of doubt remains.

After all, he is no stranger to deep-laid plans.

* * *

He hopes Synne doesn't notice how he's been watching her; they have been working together over the shapeshifting spells for some time now. He, of course, had little trouble mastering the basic spell-runes, but Synne struggles, so he has been tutoring her. And watching her.

He finds it a little troubling, how much he can't keep his eyes off her. True, she is an elegant exemplar of a young Vanr lady, blossoming out into curves and long limbs, joyous face framed as ever by tumbling and unruly blonde curls. But there are other ladies of Asgard who cast her immature beauty into shadow (Amora, whose epithet is the Enchantress, comes to mind), and he can find no reason within himself why his attention should be wrapped up in this one.

He considers laying the matter before an adult, as he had done with ease as a child, but adolescent sensibilities hold him back. And he keeps watching her. Watching is all he can bring himself to do, ridden by fear of rejection as he is. Synne is the one person in Asgard he feels he can claim as _his_ friend; he can't countenance disrupting that.

But ... is she watching him? No, more likely her mind is caught up in thoughts of the many young warriors that throng the courts of Asgard (boring, sweaty, uncouth fellows). He calls her name, and nothing has ever surprised him so much as what follows. He does not mean to reveal his hesitant hopes, but the word tumbles out of his mouth before he can call it back.

And then she is kissing him shyly, and instinct overwhelms caution; his arms go round her supple form and he can hardly bring himself to let go. But he has to know; the doubt will devour him if he does not ask. "Synne, are you sure?" It nearly chokes him to say it, but he forces the words out. "Is it not my brother you want?"

Her answer surprises and delights him, and even as she bespells his outer clothing away, he spares a moment to wonder how he ever could have doubted her. She has always been loyal. He pulls her down, unable to bear another moment without kissing her sweet mouth again. In fact, every bit of her body should be kissed and worshiped, and he proceeds to do so, removing her clothes with the same spell, and beginning with her temples and working down.

Afterward, as they lie together in his bed (he cannot quite believe his luck), she shapes him a sweet compliment, and slyly demands more kisses. The joy on her face makes him feel better than he ever has before; Synne's radiant smile is entirely due to him. Their kisses become slow and languorous, and he takes the time to try some of the other things he has overheard Thor and Fandral mention. The warmth of her body next his is glorious.

What, he wonders, has he done to earn this?

And how long before it, too, is dragged away?

He resolves, on the verge of sleep, to cling as tightly as he can. If nothing else, this one thing will be his alone.


	5. Chapter 5

"Brother!" roars Thor exuberantly across the dining chamber. Loki winces slightly, brushing a hand over his temple. Despite numerous - distractions, he had in fact spent a great deal of the night studying evolutions of shapeshifting spells, and consequently not gotten much sleep. He'd hoped to slip in, collect some food, and slip out again, none the wiser, to return to his abandoned bedmate.

Luck is not at all on his side, however, as close on Thor's heels come the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif. Volstagg immediately swaggers over to clap Loki upon the shoulder. "I hear you have joined the ranks of men, young Silver-tongue!" he booms, helping himself to everything upon the boards. "Who is the lucky maiden?"

Loki casts about in vain for escape; even Hogun's usually grim visage shows signs of humour. Fandral is openly grinning, the bastard.

"I'd ... rather not say," he manages, fighting down a blush.

"Oh, come now!" Volstagg cajoles. "What, are you shamed?"

"I confess, I had thought, brother, that you were a lover of men!" Thor laughs.

Loki thinks privately it is just as well he were not, for he is well aware that in his own mind no man can measure up to Thor.

"May not a man keep some things to himself?" he protests.

All four men grin at him, clearly expecting him to boast. He busies himself piling a platter with small foods, trying not to meet any eyes. Even Sif is arching an inquiring eyebrow in his direction.

He turns, and Fandral is at his side suddenly, peering into his face, a slight frown etching his brows. "Was it not good, lad?" he asks, quietly. "Is that why you won't say?"

He gives up trying not to blush, and concentrates instead on not fleeing the room. Several unfamiliar expressions flicker over Fandral's face, and out of the corner of his eye Loki sees him motion behind his back. Incredibly, Thor instantly turns and engages Hogun and Sif in conversation. Fandral lounges against the serving board, arms folded, and eyes Loki.

"You have lain with a woman, and yet you blush like a boy still, Loki. Did you think we would think less of you?"

"You could hardly think less of me, for how little you think of me now," Loki mutters.

Fandral acknowledges this with a wry snort, but presses on. "You do not bear the look of a man unsatisfied. In fact, you look ... well-satisfied, indeed. What harm in telling us the girl's name? Do you wish to keep her for yourself? Surely you will tire of her eventually."

Loki bites his lip, hard. What he wants is to smash Fandral across the face for what he is suggesting, and only the thought that Fandral does not know the truth holds him back. What he says, carefully, is, "I will not have you speak so."

Stark astonishment paints Fandral's face while he whispers, "You've fallen in love with the girl."

"No," Loki denies immediately. He's not even sure if he's lying or not; he just doesn't want Fandral to be the one who helps him to that sort of revelation.

"For fuck's sake, Loki," Fandral mutters, covering his eyes with one hand. "A bit of honesty wouldn't go amiss right now."

Loki eyes him sidelong. "I'm not trusting you, Fandral," he hisses. "Leave off, or I'll fill your bed with snakes."

Fandral raises one eyebrow, making a cynical face. "Fine. Keep your secrets. Keep your girl."

Balancing his full platter on one hand, Loki bares his teeth at Fandral in what cannot possibly be called a smile. "I always have." Pausing on his way out the door, he glances back. "As for my lady, I shall keep her."

He revels in the stunned silence he leaves behind. 


	6. Chapter 6

I stretch luxuriously, fully conscious of Loki's eyes on me. His face is very appreciative, and I don't think he realises he's licking his lips. I give him a roguish smile and ask, "Seeing something you like?"

"Oh, yes," he breathes, advancing on me. I laugh, scrambling backward, and turning a fall off the bed into a quick roll that brings me to my feet. The wide bed lies spread between us. Loki's smile acquires a predatory edge as I bite my lip and fade back to the wall. Slowly, he leans forward, planting his hands on the edge of the bed. "How far will you run, my Synne?"

"Oh, not far," I tell him, using one of his own tricks and leaving a fetch in my place. Invisibility is a specialty of my own, and I use it now to slip around behind him into the wider part of the room. I don't like seeing myself from outside, but the amusement of this game is more than worth the slight discomfort. A caress of my fingers becomes a brush of air against Loki's cheek as he reaches out to my fetch.

Laughter gives away my location as his head whips around, shorter hair swinging around his face. I drop the invisibility and dart behind the huge wooden fire-settle, still giggling. The speed of his lunge across the room takes me by surprise, and before I can respond he has me by the shoulders, gazing down into my face.

As ever, his sheer presence serves to steal my breath away. All our merriment falls away as we look at each other, stillness closing around like a cloak. I cherish these moments, the warmth in his green eyes as they rove my face, the soft brush of his fingers pushing the hair out of my eyes, the parting of his lips just before he leans down to kiss me.

We have learnt to slow the frantic edge of our need, drawing time out slow as honey with teasing. His fingers, long and supple, thread into my curls, cradling the back of my head. I let my tongue trace the edge of his lip, taunting. I do not taunt long before his kisses become more demanding, teeth biting at my mouth. I whine, low in my throat, and scrape my nails on the bones behind his ears. His hands run down along my spine to wrap my waist, bringing a shudder to my body.

Loki lifts me, and I love his strength, trailing gentler kisses, tiny and soft like kitten toes, all over my face. I let my head fall back, and he takes the implied invitation to my throat, drawing his lips along to the pulse there. He licks it, and I shudder again. "Synne," he whispers against my throat.

"Loki," I say back, slow and languorous. I pull forward and lean my forehead against his shoulder, wrapping my arms around him.

"You are amazing," he murmurs, and I smile.

"I love you," I tell his shoulder hesitantly. The jolt as my feet hit the floor is startling, but not as much as the dramatic pressure of Loki's mouth on mine. He is crushing me in his arms, a desperation in his touch that has been absent these long months. I can barely breathe for the passionate fervour of these kisses. Before I know what is happening, he's swept my feet from under me and has laid me out on the bearskin, still kissing me. A swift half-second brush of his hand has me nude beneath him.

I open my mouth to speak, and one long hand closes over it. For once, obedient, I fall silent. He lifts his hand, gazing down on me. "Stay you there and wait for me." I turn my hands out in acquiescence. He rises over me, tall and dark and slender and everything I dream of, and begins very deliberately to remove his garb by hand. I have to clench my nails into my palms to keep from moving, from simply tumbling him to the floor with me.

Each inch of pale skin revealed is more tempting than the last. The way Loki smiles at me, I know he knows my thought. Finally, finally, he is unclothed, and kneels back over me, splaying his hands over my hips. He gives me my favourite sly smile, and with tantalising patience slips one long finger into me. I cannot restrain a gasp, and Loki's chuckle answers me. He takes his time, first one finger, then two, and three, paying attention to the small bud of flesh between my thighs, pulling me to the edge and letting me slide back.

This is a new form, but now I recognise the game, same as it has ever been. He pushes, I resist, until one of us gives in. I know he will win this round, but the play is in how long I may hold out against him. I give Loki a challenging smile, daring him onward.

He pushes my thighs apart now, settling between them, and I admire the smooth flow of his muscles as he leans down to replace fingers with tongue. I'm only left to feel the loss of fulfillment for a moment before his hands are back at their work, drawing me upward to dizzying heights. Over and over, until I give in and plead, "Loki, please, I need you."

His answering laughter against my skin is nearly enough, until his sudden absence draws me back yet again. I am writhing desperately beneath him, letting my whole body beg for release. The yearning is so very strong I am reduced to whispering, "Please," under my breath.

The pleasure and relief is utterly indescribable as soon as he sheathes himself in me. The breath is driven out of my body yet again. I can hear it in his groan when he comes to rest deep within my body, burying his face in my neck. "Permission to move?" I say, low, and he nods.

Some things, I have learnt in our time together, and one of them is the way of caressing him within me without need of great external motion. I clasp him tight, and it occurs to me that I could return the favour he paid me, drawing things out, but my own eagerness overrides that thought. I roll my hips, liquid and just enough to keep us spiralling upward into bliss, and take my climax at the moment Loki gasps my name, like a prayer.


	7. Chapter 7

I am lounging on the settle, contemplating a lock of hair and letting the warmth of the fire sink into my bones. I've been trying spells on my hair, learning smaller elements of shapeshifting, and this latest attempt has straightened all the curls. Utterly unbound, it swings past my knees. I wonder what Loki will think.

I do not have long to wait; Loki stalks into the room, stripping his gloves off and slapping them down. From the sound of things, he has just come from the training rings, so his high temper is no surprise. I do not stir, hidden behind the settle's high back and still considering my spell. He will seek me out when he is ready.

I hear various pieces of armour hitting the floor, discarded like so many bones; the crackle of sinews as he stretches. He steps around and slumps into the bench near me, dark hair lank with sweat and face marked with dirt. Silence overtakes the rooms. It's a comfortable silence, composed of equal parts familiarity and exhaustion. I can hear his breathing slow. I flick my gaze to him, watching under the shadow of my lashes.

"Why will they not leave me be?" he says at last, his fingers linking and unlinking restlessly.

"Tell me," I murmur.

Loki sighs. "They want to know about you."

My surprise must be obvious, for he looks at me and shakes his head. "You are mine. I don't want anyone else intruding." As his hands slide over his mouth, he finishes, muffled, "Or taking you away from me."

I watch quietly.

"Fandral thinks you are a common strumpet, available to anyone."

A snicker spills out of me. "No strumpet could ever catch your eye, Loki."

"Very kind, I'm sure," he says dismissively. "I want ... you deserve ... he should not think of you so!" he blazes, fumbling for words. "If I tell them who you are, they will think less of you. A lady of Asgard should not be used so."

"I am of the Vanir, and we do not hold these mores," I remind him. "What is it to me if the court's most notorious lady-killer thinks me wanton? No one for whom I care is like to disapprove." I lean forward, trying to catch his eyes. "Think what fun we could have with Fandral."

"I would not lie with him!" Loki snaps. "Nor should you."

I grin. "Certainly not, but how amusing to let him think so."

"And ... my mother?" he says slowly, but I can see him beginning to warm to the idea.

"Do you truly think your mother would think less of either of us for finding happiness?"

His answer is wry. "Not when you phrase it so."

"Let it be simple," I say, rising to cross and take his hands. "I shall appear on your arm on Winternight. Let all make of that what they will."

"How can I resist when you ask so sweetly?" He lifts my hands to his mouth and bestows a kiss on each finger.

"Truly, Loki, my only care in this is for you. You wished us private, and so we were." I shrug. "Had you rather I spoke to Fandral myself?"

"No!" He nearly crushes my hands in his. "No," he continues more calmly. "You are wise, my Synne, to suggest Winternight. We will go, together, and outshine them all."

'Even my brother,' he carefully does not say, but I can hear it anyway.

Letting go my hands, Loki reaches out to the floating strands of hair surrounding me. "This is nice. Very elegant. It is a spell?"

"A small shapeshift," I reply. He smiles fondly and presses his cheek to my hips. I would ruffle his hair, but not before he bathes. I tell him so, and he laughs, getting to his feet.

"Come with me," Loki demands.

"You don't need my help." But I laugh along with him, and smile into his eyes for one still happy moment, and then let myself be tugged to the bathing-room. I make him draw his own bath, setting out towels and soap and brushes while he disrobes. There are bruises starting to show along his ribs, but I do not speak; I know how he came by them, and why, and that there is nothing I can do or say to make a difference there.

Some things, Loki will not hear, even from me. It is ... frustrating.

Perhaps that will change with Winternight.

He throws me a sidelong glance as he slips into the water, all long limbs and smooth muscle. My heart beats a little faster, my breath catches in my mouth. Ducking his head under the surface, the water turns dark hair into silky fingers tracing his shoulders. Glittering drops chase down his face as he comes up, flicking his hair back and showering me with the spray. I squeak indignantly.

A sinuous movement of his hands turns the water spotting my dress into tiny flower petals, and I blow him a kiss, with a little breeze that swirls the petals around him. He catches one, and it turns back into a droplet of water.

"Wash my hair," he begs, and I choose to stop resisting, kneeling by the rim of the bath and putting my hands into his wet hair. I can feel him tremble faintly while I work the lather through the dark strands, my fingertips caressing his scalp. I push lightly at his shoulder and obediently he slides under the water, swirling the soap away. When he resurfaces, half his hair is over his face, and I giggle at the sight of one green eye framed by the wet locks.

"You're done," I say, touching the tip of his nose with one finger. He snaps at me, playfully, and I tap him again on the nose. "Up," I command, and he rises, sheeting water and gazing at me with heavy-lidded eyes. He looks every inch the god he is called.

I know all my love is in my face as I look at him. 


	8. Chapter 8

He is more nervous than he can ever remember being before. What if Synne is wrong? What if they are both condemned, made the laughingstock of the court before all assembled? Winternight is not a small celebration. He could not bear it if his beautiful Synne were lowered in the eyes of his peers. The way they look at him, when they think he doesn't see, is bad enough.

He tries not to let it bother him, what the warrior-lords of high Asgard think of him; after all, they do not know his true worth. Yes, he is the younger son, able to be spared to ventures less honourable, more hazardous; yes, his natural talents are less brilliant than those of his brother. This is what he tells himself, in the shadowed watches of the night, when he is alone with the whispers in his mind.

Somehow it's never quite enough, to silence the awareness of being second-best, second son, less, less, always less. Nothing seems to be enough for that. He knows his own worth, he does, but how sweet to have those around him acknowledge it too! Thor may be the stronger on the field of combat, but he knows the superiority of his intellect over his brother's; why can no one else see it?

The mad injustice of it all, even in his own mind, makes him want to scream to the roots of Yggdrasil.

The appearance of Synne, tapping shyly at the entrance to his rooms in a way she hasn't done for years, definitively distracts him from such morbid thinking. She is beyond breathtaking, clad in some dark blue, half-transparent stuff aglitter with gold and silver, like the very night sky come to dance with him. Every elegant curve of her body is marked in graceful lines. Against the richness of the fabric her skin shimmers cream and her hair curls in lustrous spirals. Her throat and shoulders are bare of all adornment, rising out of the blue in queenly fashion.

Loki is completely unaware of his mouth dropping open until she crosses to stand before him and puts a finger under his chin. "Here's a rare sight, the Silver-tongue speechless for once," she teases, and he gulps, pulling his mouth shut with effort.

"Lady, you outshine the Tree and all its Nine Realms," he manages, and bows very low indeed over her hand. This is a Synne he has never seen before, and he feels wildly unworthy.

"Oh, Loki," he hears her say breathlessly, and catches the warmth of a blush flaming her face. "Please don't say such things; don't spin me pretty lies right now."

"Synne," he promises, "I have never, nor will I ever, lie to you. I swear it." He clasps her hand to his chest, gentle pressure against his formal black and green and gold. "Lie _with_ you, though, oh yes," he mutters.

She grins, and in the smile he can see his impish Synne underneath all the elegance. "I, too, my prince," she returns, and their ease with each other sweeps away all his fears for the moment. "Shall we?" she asks, and tips her head to the door. He offers his arm, and she takes it. Polished surfaces near the doorway reflect back their image, shadows and light.


	9. Chapter 9

A ripple of quiet hushes out from the arch through which they enter. The great feasting hall is already full of folk, from Aesir to Alfar and all races between. All classes, too; housecarls mingle freely and joyously with the lords and warriors of Asgard this night, and Odin Allfather presides over all from his high seat. Giving Synne a smile meant as much to reassure himself as her, Loki wends his way to kneel at his father's feet. His father's face is solemn in acknowledgement, but he can see that one eye widen as Odin takes in Synne's presence at his side.

The three give each other grave nods, and Loki is certain he sees his father's good eye shiver in a subtle wink. He gives a flicker of his own eyes in return and sweeps his lady into the crowd. His mother will be about somewhere, unobtrusively attending to everyone's needs, but they have a greater chance finding her by luck as by purpose. In truth, he isn't sure he wants to encounter anyone he knows tonight, though it's hardly likely he will avoid them all. Rumour and gossip will fly, now that he has appeared at a formal function with Synne, but he doesn't want to do anything to fuel those rumours himself.

Not tonight.

Volstagg is, as expected, by the tables laden with food, and thus easy to avoid. He does not expect to see Hogun this night; the foreigner honours Winternight with vigil over merriment. Synne tugs on his arm, gently, and tips her head toward one of the alcoves. She puts her lips to his ear to say, "Shall you like to sit near the skalds? If you've never heard it before, the drunken poetry contests tonight are something to behold." A little laugh threads her tone.

"You hadn't rather dance?" Loki asks; fully half the hall is taken with dancers and musicians and he knows Synne loves both. Of course, she knows he loves poetry, mostly nidhvisur composed on the spot. They grin at each other.

"We've time for both," she says comfortably. "And I don't want to dance so early in the night; I'll be too tired to see the night through to dawn. Come, Loki." He allows her to pull him through the room; it's just as well, since he's already seen Thor, Sif, and Fandral among the dancers.

The cluster of skalds the pair joins don't bat an eye at the two of them together. Plied with mead, Loki allows himself to be drawn into first one contest, then another, though he steadfastly refuses to compose any mansongr this night, darting glances at Synne and trying not to blush like a boy. She, though unskilled at nidhvisur, nevertheless spins a few kenning that have the group roaring with laughter, and with her aid Loki is able to defeat the most arrogant of the skalds, Eyvindr, with nidhvisur.

As Eyvindr slinks off in defeat, seeking wine to soothe his wounded ego, the mood shifts, and while Loki provides his lady with tidbits from the feast-tables, Sigvatr the Eldest regales them all with the saga of Odin's defeat of Surtur the Flame Giant. He thinks he may never have had such a good time on Winternight in his life.

Synne sits nestled up against Loki, clasped in the circle of his arms, and tips her head back to smile at him. He likes the view, over her head and down to the swell of her breasts, pale against the dark fabric of her gown. She reaches one hand up to caress his face and says softly, "Shall we dance now?"

It doesn't even take half a second for him to be on his feet and pulling her into his arms; hand-in-hand they move toward the dancers. Wine and mead, ale and beer have been flowing, and half the early dancers have been forced to sit down lest they fall down. This leaves greater space for those of higher skill, and the musicians are playing to that skill with songs high and fast. Synne hurls herself into their midst, catching her skirts up in both hands and laughing gleefully.

Loki folds his arms and finds a convenient pillar to lean against, the better to enjoy Synne's energetic dancing. He's not alone there long, though, before Thor and Fandral appear to either side of him. Fandral has a predatory expression, eyeing the women dancing. Loki wonders if he realises he's licking his lips. It's possible he ought to fill Fandral's bed with snakes on principle.

The three watch in some silence, though Loki's enjoyment is spoilt waiting for his brother to speak. He tries not to notice where Fandral is looking. At last, Thor clears his throat. "I hear you are escorting a young maiden this year, brother," he says, unwontedly tactful.

Loki just nods his head. Fandral rubs his hands together, starting to smile. "I'll wager I can pick out the very one."

Loki starts to speak then, but Thor speaks first. "Done," he booms jovially. "What is your stake?"

"One of those wolfhound pups you've been admiring," Fandral counters. "And yours?" Thor holds out one of his gold armbands.

Loki frowns. "You would wager over the identity of my lady?"

Fandral tosses them both a wink and slips into the crowd of dancers. Thor responds, "I wager on Fandral's knowledge of you, brother! He does not know you as I do, and he will fail."

Loki smiles slowly. "So you think you already know, brother? Will you wager with me?"

"Hah!" Thor laughs, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Will you give me a dance with her if I am right?"

"With a will," Loki says, confident now. There is no way his brother can know, for he is not nearly observant enough.

Thor's face takes on the slight frown he wears when he is pondering something, and his eyes begin to scan the dancers. Fandral has vanished completely amongst the women, and Loki's actually not sure he's going to come back at all, but his gaze lights on Synne and he decides he doesn't care. She is spinning madly, her skirts flaring around her slim body and her head thrown back. The music shifts, and at once her feet are moving swiftly, tapping out patterns among the beat.

Thor is surprisingly quiet when he wants to be, and just now his voice is nearly inaudible in Loki's ear. "Your lady wears a gown like a starry night, and her hair is fair as the dawn. She dances like the goddess she is called and her name is the sun she outshines." Loki turns, gaping, at his brother, whose grin is huge and very smug indeed. "I take it from your expression that I am right," he finishes, and clasps Loki's arm. "Well done. Well done indeed, brother."

Loki blinks, and closes his mouth. It is all he can do. Who is this creature, and what has happened to his brash brother?

"Do you let me know if Fandral guesses aright," Thor continues. "I'll have that dance in the new day. I'm off for now." Before Loki can muster any answer whatsoever, his golden brother is lost amongst the crowd of folk, and a change in the music catches his ear once more. The chords are those of a women's dance, and soon enough Fandral comes stumbling back out of the dancers, slightly mussed and more disgruntled.

"Where is Thor?" he demands of Loki. Loki smiles at him, cool and amused and hiding his discomposure behind his favourite mask.

"I do not know," he replies. "He bid me tell him the outcome of your wager, and left. Have you a guess to make, Fandral, or did the ladies merely throw you out of the dance?" He tips his head at the circles of women, holding hands and winding amongst each other. He schools his expression hard as Synne's name is called amid the music and giggles, and keeps his eyes fixed on Fandral.

The other man's mouth is pursed tight, eyes narrowed. "I have not," he snaps, and instantly moderates his tone. "Never fear, Loki, I shan't lose to your brother. He can't possibly imagine what men like us desire in a woman, eh?"

Loki just wishes Fandral would shut up now, and that he had a better vantage point, for the cheering of the women has reached such a pitch that he is sure whatever Synne is doing, there at the centre of the dance, must be amazing. Perhaps he could ask a private performance, later? He allows himself to arch an eyebrow at Fandral's remark derisively. 'Men like us,' indeed. The only person he wants less to be like is his own brother, sometimes.

At last, at last, the music falls apart in a flourish of pipes, and Loki damns Fandral's presence momentarily. Then it stops mattering, because Synne emerges from the dispersing dancers and clings to his arm, breathing hard, and it is hugely, absurdly, gratifying to see Fandral's eyes nearly pop out of his head. Loki ignores the swashbuckler, though, in favour of supporting Synne to a bench and helping her stroke her hair back into some sort of order.

She, in turn, has eyes only for him, and does not even seem to notice Fandral's stare. Her colour is high from exertion, and Loki finds himself holding off a desperate wish to conceal them both and simply slip her back to his rooms, where he can reward her as she deserves. Alas, his sense of responsibility rears its head, and Fandral is plucking at his arm. He rounds on the other man.

"What? Can you not see I am attending to a lady?" He does not bother to keep his tone level, but Fandral barely notices.

"That's your lady? Synne of the Vanir?" Fandral is clearly in deep shock.

Loki grips his arms. "Get hold of yourself, man."

"Loki, she's turned down more men than I have had women! She's never said yes to anyone! Completely untouchable!" Fandral gasps out. Loki refuses to glance over his shoulder. He will _not_.

_'Never said yes to anyone'?_

"No wonder you're called the Silver-tongue."

"Yes. I am," Loki manages to reply, and turns away, "Please excuse me." Taking a quick step, he kneels at Synne's feet, seizing her hand and kissing it fiercely.

She laughs. "What was that for?"

"For that you are you," he says, and kisses it again.

* * *

It is nearly midnight on this, the longest night of the year. Many of the torches and candles have been let to burn out, and the great feasting hall is dimmer, now, and quieter. Asgard does not fear the dark, but there is always that deep, atavistic moment within, wondering if the light will return, and so conversations run low, voices and music soften, as the hour nears midnight.

Loki and Synne are dancing slowly, to some sweet sad thing the musician claims came from a place far from the Nine Realms. There are only a few other couples, and Loki sees with mild surprise one of them is Sif, with Thor. Fleetingly, he can catch glimpses of their reflection in the mirrors that line the hall's far end; Synne's hair glimmers in the dim light against his black and green like fallen stars. He holds her possessively close, pressing their bodies together.

He truly does not want to give her up to Thor, for the promised dance in the new day. His brother is golden, and charming, and everything he is not; despite the flush of amazement from Fandral's words earlier, Loki does not believe his hold on Synne is very strong. If someone better comes along, she will surely leave him. He's not sure he could bear that. Especially not if the someone is his everlasting brother. It would be yet another thing Thor has, unwittingly, taken from him.

And how in the Nine Realms could Thor not be seen as better than he?

It hurts him, these thoughts. He loves his brother, and envies him, and the tangle of the two emotions is a horrid knot in his mind. Synne makes a small sound, and Loki becomes aware he is pressing her hand wretchedly tight. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he mutters, and she rests her head on his shoulder as a sign of forgiveness.

"Tell me?" she asks, and he shakes his head slightly.

"Not now."

The music slips to a close, at the hour of midnight, and the two pause as all the lights in the great hall are extinguished. Only starlight gilds the room, now, seeping in from outside, small and chill. With the light goes the sound, as the folk fall silent and still. They clasp each other's hand, in the dark and the quiet, and for half a hundred heartbeats it is as if there is no world, there is nothing, save the feel of their two hands together.

And then the slash of light, of the spear Gungnir, splits the hall and all the torches and lamps roar back to life at the touch of it, and the feasting hall erupts into cheers and shouting; Thor leads the toast to the new day and the return of the light and lastly to Odin Allfather. The music and dancing begin again, more raucous than before; a streaming shouting wild celebration of life renewed and returning. Loki turns his back on it all and tugs Synne to an alcove near the arch by which they'd entered, long hours ago.

There he proceeds, for no particular clear reason, to kiss her until they are both reeling from it, ravishing her mouth with his tongue and nipping until her lips are apple-red.

Of course, this is precisely the moment when Frigga appears. His mother's smile is tolerant, amused, faintly wicked. That's not a thing he ever wanted to know about his mother, actually.

"Have you tamed my wild son, then?" she asks of Synne.

Demurely, the Vanr girl replies, "If he was tame I wouldn't love him." Loki tries not to choke.

"You've learnt that wisdom already."

"Or ever I left my own mother's side, Lady Frigga. I hold with an open hand."

"Do you not hurt him, Synne," Frigga admonishes.

Affronted, Loki exclaims, "Mother!"

She doesn't even spare a glance at him.

Synne lays a hand on his shoulder."I wouldn't."

"See that you don't." And the queen is gone, slipped back into the crowd. Loki blinks twice, hard, and raises an eyebrow at Synne.

"Are women cryptic by accident, or do you do it to annoy us poor men?"

"Don't even pretend you didn't understand that," she says.

He shrugs, uncomfortable admitting to it. "You've impressed all my family, it seems. Thor won a dance with you off me, earlier tonight. He'll come to claim it soon."

"By what right do you wager me so easily?" she asks, but he can see she's teasing.

He responds, "The right of a lover to flaunt his partner?" and gains a hair-pulling for his pains.

"Don't be more absurd than you have to be." She closes her eyes for a long moment, and Loki takes the opportunity to admire the pale curl of eyelashes against cheekbones, and to press gentle kisses to her eyebrows.

"Are you tired, Synne? We don't have to stay. Thor will understand if you cry off. So will I."

"I shan't forfeit your honour in that wager," she smiles at him. "And I'd like to see the dawnlight with you. But perhaps, from one of the little balconies here,after I give your brother his dance?"

He can't stop the way he flinches at her phrasing, or the way his face freezes up. He can't look at her, either, until she takes his face in her hands and forces him to. "Stop that. It's just one dance, soon ended. Will you go and wait for me? Or will you watch?"

"I had rather watch. Thor may try to take liberties with you, but not if my eye is on him while he would do so." In truth, Loki would far rather take his leave of the hall entirely, but Synne has neatly closed off his escape; he won't leave her here. He also doesn't really want to watch his brother dancing with his Synne, either; no doubt Thor will choose one of the more energetic dances, at which Synne excels, and he really can't think which will hurt the more: seeing her graceful body propelled through the figures by Thor's strength, or merely knowing of it without looking.

"I wish you would not mistrust your brother so," she murmurs, and is gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Dawn has come, and gone, and I am lightheaded with the need for sleep, my body yet buzzing from the adrenaline surge of the night. Loki and I reel down the long hallways to his rooms, so much nearer the public chambers than mine, and collapse in a graceless heap on the bed. Instantly I shove him off me, wincing with the impact of armour.

"Armour. Off," I tell him in response to his quizzical glance.

"Oh. Yes." His rich voice is rough with exhaustion, and he doesn't even bother to stand up, just unbuckling and writhing out of the formal pieces where he lies, then shoving them off to hit the floor with dull clanks. I am beyond grateful that my own garb has no such edges or heavy elements. Loki seems to want me out of it, though, for he rolls me to my side and fumbles with the closures at my back. The feel of his fingers is cool against my heated skin, and I allow a sigh of contentment to escape my lips.

"Have I told you how utterly lovely you look in this gown?" he asks, mouth against the nape of my neck. "Like the most perfect vision of a night sky."

"Is that why you were so jealous of anyone who looked at me?" I tease.

His hands still momentarily, and I know he's offended. "I was not so."

I chuckle. "As you say, Silver-tongue." The last tie comes loose, and I find the energy to stand up long enough to tug the rustling fabric over my hips. Mostly unclothed, I drop back onto the bed, burying my face in the loose front of Loki's shirt. "I have known for long and long how attractive you are when at a formal occasion. Almost as attractive as when you are unclothed."

"Is that a hint?" he asks; by his tone I know I am forgiven.

"Not if you don't want one," I laugh, looking up into his eyes. They are heavy-lidded, bare glints of green showing through his dark lashes.

"Always," he whispers, before laying his mouth to mine. "Always and always." I slip my hands up under his shirt, drawing slow fingertips down his spine. There's tension in his shoulders, making his back a map of stark muscles. He parts my lips with his tongue, softly stroking. The fingers of one hand wind into my curls, wildly dishevelled, and pin my head in place for the other to quest the lines of my face like a blind man. When he releases me from this kiss I mouth along the faint prickle of stubble showing along his jawline, licking at the point of his jaw.

"Never leave me, Synne," he sighs, tipping his head back to my ministrations. I don't bother to answer, intent on sliding down to kiss his chest and suck at his nipples. Gooseflesh pebbles his skin. I smile and trace one faint scar mark with the tip of my tongue, listening for the low sound of his moan. "Please," he begs softly, half coherent.

"Please?" I do like it when Loki pleads. I pursue my quest, nosing the edges of his ribs, protruding slightly against his silk and velvet skin. I slip my fingernails along each rib, tormenting with pleasure and leaving faint red lines against the paleness. Overtaken by whimsy (or possibly too much mead) I etch my sigil in runes along his sternum in those pale lines, laying claim to his body, if nothing else. I shape the word 'love' across his abdomen with flicks of my tongue, like a cat tasting milk.

Loki's hands, long and elegant, clutch hard at my shoulders now, exerting the faintest pressure downward. I let my laughter tremble against his skin while I obey. I'm not too tired to untangle the drawstring of his breeches, nor to take into my mouth what I find there. He is already aroused, as I meant him to be, and fills my mouth with his length.

This is not a thing taught, as such, to the daughters of the Vanir, but we two have sought out the learning of it as we seek out the learning of new magics, and after all our time together I know what pleases him most. As I like him to beg, he likes me to draw him to beg, to dance nearer and nearer that edge of desire. So I tease him, with cheeks and throat, lips and tongue.

Loki's gripping my shoulders painfully hard now, and I expect to find bruises when we wake up later. A swift flex of his fingers, our agreed-on signal, and I release him. He doesn't even bother to finish disrobing, just draws me up his body, draws me into a deep, hard kiss, and sheathes himself in me. We both of us gasp at the shock of it, clinging to each other like drowning.

For all his haste a moment ago, Loki takes his time now, moving smooth and slow and easy within me, purring in my ear until I am crying out with the bliss of it. Our fingers twine together, gripping hard, and we can't kiss for needing to breathe. I can sense the shudder overtaking him just before he climaxes. Freeing one hand, he smooths it along the side of my face, his eyes soft and his smile gentle. Cat-like, he strokes and pets me to completion, catching my sighs in his mouth and trading me kisses for them.

"I have you and I will keep you," he whispers in my ear, pulling the furs around us closer and tucking us in against the winter's chill.

I laugh sleepily. "You're so possessive, my love." His only response is to wind me the more tightly in his arms. 


	11. Chapter 11

Loki leaves Synne curled tightly under the furs with a soft kiss on the cheek. He expects he's more used to the intensity of these formal functions than she is, though he's begun to be more curious about her past. She doesn't use a patronymic, for instance, which is strange in the shining city. Heritage, family, is all-important here.

But it wouldn't be the first reminder that despite the peace between Aesir and Vanir, the two cultures are very different. Vanir women have much more freedom than most Aesir women, for example, and the Vanir knowledge of seithr is unparallelled. Perhaps they place less emphasis on family lines.

He supposes it's possible Synne doesn't know who her father is; she speaks of her mother but never of any other family member. Immersed in such thoughts, he doesn't notice Fandral falling into step beside him until the other man speaks.

"Good morning, Loki."

He resists startling, suspicious of Fandral's motives. "Good morning," he responds, carefully.

"So, tell me how you came to know Synne of the Vanir," Fandral says, and Loki can tell he thinks he's being sly. He doesn't roll his eyes, but his mouth quirks a bit.

"That's a long story," he replies instead. Fandral's eyebrows flick up, then down.

"How long have you known her?" he says, carefully, looking like a man treading dangerous ground.

Loki has to actually stop and think about that, and the answer is something of a surprise even to him. "Eight years. She ... shared my lessons on seithr."

They turn together into the dining chamber, empty yet at this hour, and Fandral goes immediately to the fire-circle, twisting his hands together. "That's impressive, Loki," he says at last. "You've stolen a march on the entire court, and until last night no one even knew."

"Frequently they don't," Loki points out. "I may be a prince of Asgard, but I'm not very well liked."

"How can you say that after walking into Winternight with Synne on your arm?"

Loki shrugs. "It was her idea."

Fandral stares at him now, frozen in mid-motion. "Is that it? Was last night another one of your tricks?"

"I really don't understand why this is such a big deal to you, Fandral," Loki snaps. He's out of patience with this series of questions and Fandral's reactions to his answers, and he really just wants to know what by Yggdrasil is going on here.

Fandral drops heavily onto one of the benches encircling the fire and smooths his hand over his beard. "I'm just having trouble believing it, that's all. I know you'd had that girl back the spring, but - "

Loki cuts him off, angrily. "I've bedded no one else."

Fandral nods. "You didn't seem to have liked it much, I noticed."

"Even you can't be this oblivious," Loki sneers. "'The girl,' as you so delicately term it, last spring was Synne. I've bedded no one else since then, nor am I like to. She is my lady, and I - " he hesitates.

Fandral is clearly having some trouble parsing this information, judging by the look on his face. Loki thinks to himself that Thor had less trouble comprehending the situation last night, and thinks better of his brother than he has in a while.

Putting his face in his hands, Fandral mumbles, "You have a steady lover. Synne is your lover. You."

"Do not insult me further, Fandral," Loki warns. "I will not hear it."

"Or what? You'll fill my bed with snakes? A hollow threat, la - man."

Loki murmurs coolly, "Less so than you may think."

"I think you've made your point," a voice interposes, and both men look up to see Sif in the entrance. "Let Loki alone, Fandral. He's a right to bed whom he wants, no matter how much you may want the woman for yourself. I didn't notice you making any moves that direction, myself."

Meanly, Loki is glad to see Fandral flinch at the acid in Sif's tone. Then her gaze swings to him, and he returns his coolest look. "Stop that," she admonishes him. "I know perfectly well she chose you, not the other way round."

"Maybe you can tell me what she sees in him," Fandral says, cuttingly. Sif levels a look of sheer disdain at him and says, "Shut up, Fandral." The blond swordsman subsides, grumbling under his breath.

Sif takes Loki's arm and steers him back out the door. "The two of you looked very fine yesterday," she says, conversationally.

"Thank you," Loki manages to reply.

She continues, "I'm glad to see you both getting out more. Perhaps if you and Synne join us in the evenings, Fandral will be able to look his fill and stop being so - "

"Repellent?" Loki fills in.

"I was going to say 'petulant,' but that will do." Sif tosses her tail of hair. "She's happy, with you."

Wryly, Loki says, "I'm glad you approve."

She gives him another one of those looks. "You don't need anyone's approval, Loki. Just ... " she shrugs. "Never mind. The last thing you need is interfering advice from me." She unlinks her arm from his, leaving him at the door to the library, and keeps walking. Loki blinks after her for a long moment before pushing the doors open. 


	12. Chapter 12

I lie under the blossoming trees in a warm spring afternoon. I haven't seen Loki in some days; he hasn't emerged from his rooms, deep in some new spellwork. I don't really mind, for he has been almost smotheringly possessive of late, and the time to myself is welcome. I had intended to read, but I find my thoughts wandering, inevitably, to Loki.

I don't understand why he is so jealous of my presence. I have given him every evidence I know how of my feelings, yet always he seeks more, questioning my heart's dedication to him. But he questions so much, these days. Nothing seems to be enough for him, and he puts me off if ever I offer help.

I don't know if I can be what he wants.

What I want is not to think about this. I want to laugh, and play pranks, and dance, and make love for hours, with Loki, for as long as I may. I blow out a sigh, conjuring a small breeze to whirl fallen flower petals over my head, and fold my arms behind my head. I do wonder what he's doing in there. I think, if I can't see him tonight, I'll make that trip to Vanaheimr I've been wanting.

Someone else slips control of the magic from me, but the sun is warm against my skin and I don't care enough to move and see who it is. The petals swing circles into the sky, and a few escape the spell and drift onto my face. I let my eyes close against the tickle of it, and lift a hand to brush them away. A firm grip stops my motion, and at that my eyes shoot open.

A half-familiar face hovers over mine, framed in long, dark hair. The stuff curls madly at the ends, prickling at my face. Her skin is pale, cream-pale, dotted with a few tiny golden freckles over the nose. The eyes are what strike familiarity in me, deep green and sharp, and the angle of the cheekbones. The hand that clasps mine is narrow, long-fingered, but strong with it.

Her lips curve in a quick, flashing grin. I have my suspicions as to who this is, though I can hardly believe he pulled it off; it is a fantastic magic if so. I hold my peace, though, curious to see what happens next.

We stare at each other, breathing shallow, for a long delicious moment. I give a gentle tug, to see if I may be allowed to free myself, and her grip tightens to the point of pain, so I relax. She pins that hand over my head, brushing the petals off my face with the other. Her hand is cool, and I have to close my eyes against the touch.

There's something hurtful here, running just under the surface of what seems to be going on. I can't quite think what it might be, but there's a terrible pain in the eyes of the girl hovering over me, something I'm not used to seeing so clearly. The sun shines red against my closed eyelids, blocked out by flicking leaf patterns and the blown hair of the other girl.

"Look at me." The voice is as pure-perfect as the rest of her, liquid and low. As I open my eyes, she sits back on her heels, releasing my hand, and tips her head to one side. Her gaze is disconcerting; I don't think I'm supposed to be seeing what I see there. One hand drops to my bare feet, tracing around the anklebone, exploring along my heel and up over the arch. She glances away, eyes now following the paths her fingers trace along my skin.

"No one will find us here," I say, sitting up on one elbow. "If you want to explore." This swift glance is sharp, cutting, but I meet it steadily, grave and serious. She bites at her lower lip, full and sensuous, and I have to breathe in sharply against the cruel surge of desire. The nod, acquiescing, is tiny, a bare dip of the chin.

I sit up, tucking my legs underneath me, and clasp her wrists gently, drawing her close to me. She nestles against my breasts, face tipped up to mine. It s an implied invitation, and I take it, kissing as girlfriends do, sublimely sweet. Drawing back, I trace the soft arc of one eyebrow, teasing the dark hairs into perfect shape. Her dress is simple and loose-fitting, leaving ample room for me to brush my hand over the rounded curve of a shoulder and slide the neckline down. There's very clearly nothing beneath the light linen, so I collect a few petals and slip them down the line between her breasts, one hand over her fast-beating heart.

She shifts against me, leaning her back against my breasts, and pulls the drawstring at her throat loose. Thus freed, the fabric slumps down both shoulders, giving me a wide expanse of bosom to play my fingertips over. I take my time about it, shaping the subtle curves of her throat and shoulders, tracing the inner slopes of her breasts. She shudders against me, fingers splaying languidly in the grass.

We writhe a bit together, and I slide my hands over the taut skin of her abdomen. She throws her head back on my shoulder, keening very softly into my ear. I glide my fingertips by slow inches lower until they meet tangled curls, and she whimpers as I pause. Her throat is invitingly arched, so I kiss my way along it, setting my teeth to caress her pulse.

"Don't stop!" A fevered, desperate gasp. I take it in, drinking down her rasping breaths, and slide my fingers into her welcoming warmth. Her whole body flexes in pleased shock against me. After a moment for her to relax, I curve my fingers within her body, eliciting another stutter in her breathing, another low keen. Her hips rise, seeking.

"Shhh," I say against one shell-curved ear. My free hand traces the out-thrust arc of hipbone, while I twist my fingers within her. Her cry this time is louder, and I allow myself a small smile, buried in her tangling curls. She wants rhythm, but I won't give it to her, now rocking in and out, now twisting, now very very carefully scraping my fingernails inside her. Her back describes a perfect arch as she seeks to impale herself on my moving hand, increasingly desperate for release.

I still, thrust deeply inside her body, and whisper, "Do you see? How it is to be possessed? Controlled, contained?" I let one finger twitch, and she cries out, something incoherent and acquiescent. Relenting, I brush the pearl of flesh above her opening with my thumb, and she trembles in climax against me. I close my eyes and cradle her relaxing body, still smiling that faint, half-cruel smile. 


	13. Chapter 13

I am lying abed, lazily watching the early morning light pour in pale strips across the floor, when Loki enters my chambers. He is casually dressed, black hair atumble and pushed hastily out of his face. I regard him with arched brows and a cool expression. "Does your highness wish something of me?" I inquire, disdaining to move. He may be a Prince of Asgard, but I've some right to politeness.

"What?" he blurts out, then shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Synne, I just ... I needed to see you." He drops down to tbe edge of the bed.

My face doesn't change. "You couldn't wait until I had risen decently?"

"I haven't seen you in some days, so I rather thought you would be happy to have me here," he responds, his own tone growing cool. "Am I unwelcome? I had heard a rumour you had a new confidante, but surely ... "

"Oh, a rumour, was it? Is that all, to send you rushing here to check on me before I'm even properly dressed?"

"As if that could matter between us!" Loki scoffs. "But then, you've been sharing that favour around, so I hear. Someone new to Asgard, in the orchards, is how I heard it."

I retort, "Then someone is buying you with your own coin, liesmith. Do you mistrust me so?"

"Who would have reason?" He is stiff and affronted, and so am I. I hate quarrelling.

But I will play this out; he can't keep this up forever. "Many and many, my prince. After all, you are Loki, Prince of Asgard, and I am merely an unworthy Vanr girl." I smile bitterly.

His voice rises to a shout. "Don't say that!"

"It's truth."

"It is not. I will not have you repeat such lies."

I sit up. "Then do me the same kindness."

He blinks at me for a long moment, then his shoulders sag slightly. "How did you know it was me?" he asks, very quiet.

I clasp my hands around my knees. "I would always know you, I think. But," I shrug, "in truth you changed very little. If you wish to use that as a disguise, you'll have to do more than simply change your gender, my prince."

"Stop calling me that," Loki snaps, raking a hand through his hair.

"Will you tell me why you wished me to think you mistrusted me?" I lay my cheek against my upthrust knees, watching him.

He opens his mouth, looks at me, looks away. Silence.

"Ah," I say softly. "You do mistrust me. Despite that I give you no reason. Is that why you came to me in the orchard, my prince, in silence and without introduction, so you could make of it a reason?" I want to cry, but I dare not. I will not show how he has hurt me.

"Do you think me so cruel?" He still does not look at me.

"I didn't, until now," I reply. "Gods above and below, can you not leave off testing me and simply love me as I do you?" I don't quite mean to cry those words, but once started I cannot stop.

"How can I?" he cries back. "A woman like you can't possibly truly love me! Look, only look at all the other folk around! Fandral, Eyvindr, Freyr, Baldr, Hrothr," he hesitates, "Thor. Any one of them more deserving than I."

"I will no more hear you say those words, those lies, than you would hear them from me," I whisper. "You do not choose how I feel. Trust me, please just trust me as I trust you." I close my eyes, feeling a tear slide down my nose. "After all, you have never once said you loved me, yet I did not doubt it until today."

I hear fabric rustle in response to my words, but I keep my eyes closed; I do not want to see him leave.

"Please don't cry, Synne," he says falteringly. "I do love you. Please, please, come here, look at me, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you like this."

I can hear him shifting on the bed, his weight dipping closer to me. He forbears to touch me, though, but keeps pleading.

"Please, I'll do anything, only look at me, let me prove I love you."

I open my eyes to his face, worried and desperately anguished. With one hand I smear at the tear-streaks across my face.

"Synne, please, I'm so sorry. Please believe me."

I raise my hand to touch his cheek, and Loki clasps it in both his, raising it to his lips and kissing it fervently. "Don't ever lie like that to me again," I whisper. Another tear slips down my face.

"I won't, I swear I won't," he promises. "Please, can I ... can I hold you, can I kiss you?"

I hold my arms out to him and draw him in. I shouldn't, but I know I've already forgiven him. We rest our foreheads against each other and just look, for a long time. At last I say, with reluctance, "I expect you can't stay. They're probably missing you in your rooms already."

"Let them," Loki replies. "I'm staying here, with you." He fits both hands about my head, tangling his fingers in my hair, and kisses me slowly. The tip of his tongue caresses my lips, and I open to him. He tastes of spices, and pride. I could sit here for hours, just trading kisses: one for his eyebrow, that always arches with his sarcasm; one for the line of his hair, dark as obsidian and softly curling around his neck; one for his cheekbone, sharp enough to cut myself on. Slow kisses to either side of his mouth, quick to smile and hard in anger.

Loki tries to capture my mouth with his, but I've moved on, to kiss at his throat and in the hollow behind his ear, burying my face in his hair and dropping kisses there. He sighs sweetly, tipping his head back, and so I give him kisses for his collarbones. "Just as well you are not formally clothed," I whisper into his pale skin. "I can never see enough of your throat."

He laughs, low and easy with that flashing smile. "Am I to keep waiting, or will you give me a turn?"

"Oh, bored, is it? Not pleasing enough for you?" I tease, still pressing my face to his breastbone.

"I owe you the pleasure, do I not? In exchange for hurting you?"

I draw back now, to gaze into his eyes, deep green and shimmering. "Is that what you think, that you have to return pleasure for pain to earn my forgiveness?"

He shrugs. "I thought to prove how I love you, is all."

I show him a very small, tender smile. "What will you have of me, my Loki?"

He takes both my hands and kisses them, each in turn, patiently. "I want to worship you in every part." Pulling me to him, he kisses my earlobe and whispers, "I want to claim you in every possible way."

The hiss of his voice against my ear makes me shiver, desire lacing down my spine. "Claim, is it? And do I get to claim you in all these ways as well?" I murmur in reply.

"As I love you, never doubt it." He sets his lips to my shoulder, drawing a path down my arm. A bite at the underside of my wrist makes me squirm, and he flashes me that smile again, tinged with lust. My breath comes hard to me. He draws two fingers across my upturned palm before enclosing my hand in both his and fair jerking me into his lap.

Amid laughter we sprawl across my bed, utterly disarranging the blankets before Loki rolls onto his back and pulls me astride him. His phallus presses firm against me, and I writhe atop him until he stills me. "Slowly, slowly, Synne." His hands begin to wander my body, pressing hard there (my hips), barely skimming there (my sides). He traces patterns onto my skin, draws his blunt nails down my spine. Slowly he works his fingers up my torso, drawing my nightdress up until he reaches my breasts.

He spends quite a long time at my breasts, drawing soft fingertips over my nipples, weighing them in his hands, enclosing them and kneading softly. When he draws himself up to suckle I have to sigh at the pleasure of it. When he leaves off, it is only to tug the nightdress over my head, leaving me in naught but clouts and hair. Picking up a long curl, he slips it through his fingers. "I've always loved your hair, you know," he says, quietly. "My brother says it is fair as the dawn, and I must agree with him. Pale and glorious."

Loki tugs the strand gently, then releases it, reaching out to run his fingers over the lines my bones make against my skin. "But you are so much more than your beauty, Synne. Your mind, ah, the way you think and see the world. You're insightful and kind to so many, and yet still you ply your wit and let none best you without challenge." His hands span my hips. "You make me want to be better."

I want to say something wise and thoughtful, to return or earn this shower of compliments, but desire has unwound my mind and all I can do is listen. "You are so very much more than I deserve," he carries on, pressing and pressing against my body. I tangle my fingers in his drawstrings, but cannot progress from there for his hands tracing at my thighs. He leans and lays a soft kiss to my mouth, coaxing with tongue and lips, then whispers, "I can't explain how or why you mean so much to me."

I find the presence of mind to reply, "Then show me," nipping hungrily at him.

"Oh, indeed," and he puts me from him, rolling off my bed in a cat-like sprawl and stripping with economy. His pupils are huge and black and he never takes his eyes off me before crawling back onto the bed and taking me. He's brought me to such a pitch of desire that the force of it is exactly what I need, so I cry my pleasure in his ear, grappling him close to me. The scrape of my nails across his skin brings a fierce growl from his throat, and he snatches my wrists to pin them to the bed while he drives into me.

I struggle, but his fingers are long and his grip is powerful, and it only wrings more sensation from both of us. "I wish to hear you cry my name, my daylight girl," he growls, "Now." I'm helpless in the grasp of pleasure and desire, and his command bursts in my consciousness like a dying star, sweeping any hope of refusal before it in a wave of flame. My climax racks my body from toes to hairline, driving his name from my mouth in a gasp.

"Louder," he demands, wrapping his arms about me and lifting me up. "Loki, oh Loki," I cry, letting my head fall back and my spine arch. I'm trembling from the bone with aftermath, seeing stars falling behind my closed lids. He clings to me as his release shakes him like a leaf.

All we can do is gasp each other's breath for long moments, holding tightly one to the other.

"Do you believe me now?" Loki gasps, drawing my head down to his shoulder.

I start to laugh. "I've always believed you, Loki." 


	14. Chapter 14

"I just can't," she says with finality, pale green eyes closed. Even now, he can't help admiring the sweep of lashes against her cheeks, can't look past her beauty.

Even now, while she's breaking his heart.

"I beg of you," he begins, and a single slim upraised hand cuts him off as no other ever does.

"You have begged. You've begged, and promised, and sworn, and pleaded, and _you never change_. Oh, yes, for a brief little time, you stop, and just as I've got used to the freedom, it starts all over again."

Loki sits, with a thump. She is right. He hates it, and it hurts, and she is right.

Synne walks over to him, clasping his upturned face in her two hands. He can see the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes, and wants to look away. But he's earned this; it wouldn't be right. He must take his punishment.

Why did no-one ever tell him how terrible it is to love?

"What," he begins, and has to stop and clear his throat, "what will you do?"

Her smile is so very tiny. "I'll not leave Asgard, if that's what you're asking. Nothing will change, save that I will no longer be yours and yours alone." She lets go of his face, with reluctance, and he can see her lower lip start to tremble. "Forgive me, Loki. I - there was no easy way. You were hurting me, more each day. I can't - "

He doesn't speak. What could he say? He has already said it, over and over, and so has she, and this is what it has come to.

There's something less about her, holding herself together before him by main force of will - that same will they'd shaped together in long hours of seithr and short hours of sex. Nothing had ever broken it before.

But nothing has ever broken him, either, and he fears this, as it's doing to her, will break him. All he wanted was to be worthy.

Of something.

Of someone.

Of _her_.

He's failed at that, as he's failed at so much else. There aren't words for how very much it hurts.

They don't look at each other, and the silence grows, each swift breath seeming longer. Unable to crush hope entirely, Loki asks, very small, "Is there anything at all, any way I can prove ... "

"I can't make you change, my prince. The only person who can change you is yourself." Her breath goes out of her in a jagged sigh. "I will not be owned. I am not a thing."

"I know."

"You don't." This is cutting, and she turns on him; he's woken her anger. One hand slashes out, then falls. "We've said these words before. I'm done. I've said it." Synne draws herself up, squares her shoulders. "Good-bye."

She pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame. "I love you. I always will." Then she is gone, leaving Loki with his grief and guilt and pain.

He can't think what to do with it. There's so _much_, boiling inside him, raging for release. His eye falls on a dagger, lying innocuously on a marble table, and a thousand temptations roll through his head in a vast wave. To hurt, to maim, to break, to cut, to kill ...

He doesn't realise the tears are sliding down his cheeks, slow trails with each blink. He casts about, hopelessly, for some kind of distraction, something to make him not ithink/i, his gift now turned curse. His eye lights on the dagger again, and he rises to his feet and crosses to it.

Picks it up.

His other weapons and armour, formal and practise, are racked nearby. Methodically, stiffly holding his mind away from the events of the past hour, he begins to strap himself into the practise armour. Bristling with weaponry, he makes his way, through out-of-the-way hallways and down corridors little-used, to the training rings.

He begins with daggers. Vicious knife fighting, brutal and underhanded. Throwing. For a while he misses, his hands trembling and his eyes clouded, before shock begins to run out of his system. When he is hitting the bulls-eye on every strike, he switches to paired daggers and sweeping, whirling forms, moving through them all as fast as he can, challenging his mind and breath to keep up.

It is while he is driving himself with the spear, after sword and dagger, that Thor enters. Loki ignores his brother, forcing his exhausted muscles to carry through another sweep, another thrust.

"When the armsmen said you were down here battling Nidhoggr, I did not believe them," Thor says after a short time. "But I see it is true."

Loki falters, gasping for breath, and without seeming to move at all, Thor is there holding him up. "Put down the spear, brother. You do yourself harm this way."

He is so tired he drops the spear without a word, leaning against his brother.

"I will not ask. Just know that I am here for you," Thor says, one arm about Loki's shoulders. "Here, raise your arms, it will help you get your breath better." Loki complies, and indeed, soon his breathing eases. Thor beckons to an armsman, hovering on the outskirts of the rings, and puts a horn to Loki's mouth. "Drink. It is water." He tugs Loki to a bench and pushes his brother down gently.

"What do you need, brother?"

Loki folds both hands about the horn and closes his eyes. Weariness has dulled the edge of the hurt, but he can feel it still, waiting for attention to sharpen into full flower again. "Away from here," he rasps.

"Shall I help you back to your rooms?"

Loki shakes his head, a flaring edge of pain catching at his heart. He cannot face that space where he and Synne made so many happy memories. "Away from Asgard. As far away as possible."

Thor looks puzzled, but he is true and honest and does not ask, not even with his expression. "Then we shall go far away. Is it battle you seek, driving yourself here? The svartalfar ever need strong blades in their country, or we could make challenge in Muspellheimr."

Loki laughs under his breath. Of course Thor's thoughts would turn to battle. But after all, had not his own? "I do not care," he says. "Lead, and I shall follow."


	15. Chapter 15

Loki is weary to the bone. He has no idea how long they have been gone from Asgard, has lost count of days long since. He has been as good as his word, following Thor and the Warriors Three through combat after combat, challenge after challenge. He thinks they've visited all the Nine Realms, saving only Jotunheimr, and done battle in each. It has been full distracting, but not healing. In the times between, when his blood is not rushing hot in his veins and he is not watching everyone else's back, he cannot avoid the memories.

Synne's golden laughter.

Her eyes, silver-green.

A tumble of blonde curls.

At this point, he is sure the others have guessed the cause of his brooding, but they say nothing. Not one word. He cannot decide if he is grateful or annoyed. Then again, he can't decide if he even _wants_ to talk about it.

Perhaps to his mother, who has managed Odin these many years. But not, absolutely not, with his brother or any of the Warriors Three. Possibly Lady Sif, though that relationship is so strange he is not even sure how he could begin. Sif may be female in body, but it is long since he thought of her as aught but a warrior.

And warriors do not speak of broken hearts.

But they have returned to Asgard now, battle-worn but triumphant. A grand feast has been prepared for them, in the brothers' feasting hall; all Loki can think of just now is his desperate desire to get out of his armour and get _clean_, though.

And he wants some time to think. The irony is fantastic. He followed his brother from Asgard to escape thinking, and now that they have returned, thinking is all he truly wants to do. He's seen much on this trip, though, in between avoiding memories of Synne. And those parts of him that are not tied up yet in his grief over her have a lot to process.

Like his brother.

His impetuous, battle-mad, ungovernable, heedless brother.

Loki has always believed before that his brother's headlong approach to all things was something Thor would grow out of. Or possibly Odin would teach it out of him. After all, it was all well and good for a young boy to wish to hunt down all the monsters, and even a growing lad, but a king needed to be more circumspect.

And Thor was anything but circumspect.

Now he is beginning to wonder, undismissably, if perhaps Thor is not suited to be the heir to the throne.

Perhaps fortunately, this particular train of thought is spectacularly derailed by the voice emerging from the great hall. They have returned in late evening for Asgard, and many folk of the court gather there to mingle and game, drink and boast together. Just now, though, there is utter silence, save the one voice.

It is a voice Loki recognises instantly.

How not? He has listened to it night and day for more years past than he can bear to think on just now, though never in all that time has he heard it as he is hearing it now. As pure and distant as starlight, as high and cool as the peaks of Jotunheimr, his lost Synne is singing to a hushed hall.

"At world's edge, where stars are sown, and serpent's breath will freeze your bones / A banner stands on a rocky shore, wrought with runes and Viking lore / Rorik was a noble king, and of him now a tale I sing / Of how he came to world's end, and victorious returned again."

Loki is frozen where he stands, half-hidden in the shadows near the entrance to the hall. He hardly dares breathe, fearful of missing even a single note. His heart _hurts_.

"His dragon ship was proud and fair, a silver crown on chestnut hair / And to his queen he'd sworn a vow, to place a star upon her brow / So in the dark of early dawn, she came to clasp his sword belt on / And as a parting gift, she brought a silken banner, silver wrought / Runes upon a staff of yew, serpent flown on black and blue / In the dragon ship it stood, while in the prow good Rorik rode."

He knows the song now. It is old and familiar, long a favourite among the warrior-lords who throng Asgard's halls. Never, never has he heard it rendered thus. Closing his eyes, he envisions the scene: Synne, tall and proud and straight, her sunlight hair flowing about her and clad in her favourite blue, poised on the lowest step of Odin's seat, while all around the half-drunken fighters cluster, gazing at her with tears in their eyes.

"Through the seas whose shores he knew, proud the serpent banner flew / Until the seas grew dark and cold, and overhead in pale gold / The sun was faint and glimmered far; the skies grew thick with stranger stars / A barren island marked the bound between the earth and sky, he found / The dragon ship he anchored there, and in his hand the banner fair / Through the crashing surf he strode, to rocky shores, where starfire glowed."

Oh, it burns, that they could now have what he could not. He becomes aware he is grinding his teeth, and cannot stop. Poised in the corridor, he fights a battle with himself, an achingly familiar battle between jealousy and love.

"But heaven's gems are not unguarded; thus a serpent, scales hardened / With fires of the moon and sun, and the strength of battles won / Rose from 'neath the darkened deep and roared a challenge meant to keep / Rorik's hand from plucking down to the wealth of stars that there he found."

So very many of those men are regarded as better than he. He cannot conceive what she saw in him, what possible hold he might ever have on someone such as she. He is not deserving. Surely she has already turned from him, even his memory, to someone else, some greater man, stronger.

"Through the night the foes did battle; stones cried out and weapons rattled / Sun and moon did pass away, till dark alone was holding sway / Mighty were the blows, red-handed; Rorik by the fell claws branded / Till at last the serpent, winded, took Rorik's spear in one eye, blinded."

She had chosen him. He holds fast to that; from the start, she had chosen, not he. Hers were the first words, the first kiss. He has spent the last little time proving himself in battle, has he not? And he survived, and returned victorious, even as Rorik in the song.

"And while the serpent foundered bleeding, Rorik grasped his banner, weaving / Up between the standing stones, and left it there to stand alone / Then he grasped his hard won prize, a star as bright as serpent's eyes / And homeward sent his ship away, in his hand a lone star, shining."

And there was the truth of it: whatever she saw, however he thought of himself, or others not her thought of him, she believed him worthy. Might yet believe him deserving. As she was a star, guiding him, so might he be to her. He didn't know. Had never even asked.

It was something of a revelation.

"At world's edge, where stars are sown, and serpent's breath will freeze your bones / A banner stands on a rocky shore, wrought with runes and Viking lore / Rorik was a noble king, and of him now a tale I sing / Of how he came to world's end, and victorious returned again."

Rorik had fought hard, risked much, and won his prize, in the song. Loki thinks to himself now that he could do worse than to take the ancient lay as his model. He will need some assistance in this, but already a plan is forming in his mind, and some of his weariness has vanished, like mist at dawn.

He hurries down the corridor now, not caring to hear what reception Synne receives for her song, for his mind is too busy. He will bathe, first, to avoid the sharp tongue of his lady mother. A servant, to Thor, with his regrets for the feast. Time for that later.

Loki mentally cups a hand around the tiny flame of hope. He will win Synne back. He will change.

For her.


	16. Chapter 16

My heart pounding as though from running, I lean on the marble rail and give up on holding back the tears. They glitter in the slanting sunlight, small pools running into larger ones. My breath rasps in my throat. It's hard to think past the fog of pain clawing my vitals.

"How goes it, sweet sister?" The voice is familiar, as rich and liquid-elegant as Loki's. "Not well, I see."

I turn my head toward Freyr, my erstwhile half-brother, and essay a sad attempt at a smile. "You've been gone a long while," I comment inanely. He claps both hands to my shoulders and squares me before him, examining me closely. One swift fingertip sweeps a teardrop off my cheekbone.

"Trying to imitate my twin, little Synne?" He pulls me into an enveloping hug, stroking my hair. I choke a laugh into his chest.

"I sent him away," I manage at last, wrung dry of tears for the moment, if not of grief.

"Oh, little sister." Freyr rests his chin on the top of my head. "What wilt thee, then? Away from Asgard? A visit home?"

I shake my head, pulling away from his grip. "I won't be driven away by my choices." I give a diffident shrug, uncomfortable. "This is home to me, as much as Vanaheimr." I can't look at him, confessing this. "I know you and Freyja are all but hostages here, to our good faith ... " I trail off.

"But that was long before thy birth, sister mine." My brother tips my face back to his, smiling gently. "Thou art of the two worlds, not just the one. So, wouldst stay. Company, then? Distractions from grief? Long while since we sailed together."

Somehow his kindness just makes me hurt the more. I fling myself on my bed facedown, knowing it's petulant and childish, but unable to help myself. "Just let me alone!"

"As thee wilt, only send if thee wants me." He kisses the back of my head, ever the tolerant elder brother, before leaving me to my own devices.

I don't really pay much attention to the world around for the next little while, any more than I did while I was forcing myself to the decision. By the time I emerge from my rooms, all of Asgard knows that something ill passed between Loki and I, and he has been gone for some days. I know I should be relieved, but the truth is, I miss him. The halls seem emptier without his presence, and my bed seems colder.

These are tricks my heart plays on my mind, and I do my best to put them away from me. I can hardly bear silence for thinking, so I take to spending hours in the great hall, dancing and joking, pouring ale and mead, telling stories and singing. But my heart's not in it.

Wretchedly so, in fact. Many and many of Asgard's warriors and lords indicate their willingness to push Loki out of my mind, but I find half the time I don't even notice their advances. Those who are not rebuffed by past reputation and current distraction become ever bolder, and Freyr visits me again to insist I carry a blade on me. I have to wind him tight in seithr's coils before he leaves off.

I know he is merely looking out for me, though belatedly, but every touch of caring against my raw heart is like the wound anew.

I truly did not think it would be so hard. Am I not Vanr, long reputed to be shallow of heart? In truth, we merely hold lightly to the bonds Asgard holds so high. And even among us are those who cleave quickly and irredeemably to one, never to share.

Though I never thought it, it seems I am one such. And it is to Loki I am bound.

I will not give in, though. I meant what I said to Loki: I will not be possessed. He is jealous, and well I know it, but I'll not be controlled by it.

Some day he'll understand that.

In the meantime, I must find a new way to shape my life. Years I gave mostly to Loki, and I will not regret that. The fighters praise my voice. I'll build on that, for now. 


	17. Chapter 17

I'm leaving the great hall, voice worn and weary. Loki has returned. Underneath the clamour of the folk in the hall, demanding a song, the space which had been empty of his presence inside me - fills up. How could I not know that would happen? But I set myself to ignore it, every shred of willpower ever I earned set against the sensation. I cannot care. I will not care. I do not care.

I hope no one notices my expression change, and change again, as I hurry away, hoping for the shelter of my own rooms. But my luck has deserted me; a hand darts out of the shadows, clasping my wrist roughly.

It's not Loki.

I know it's not Loki, couldn't be Loki, though the smallest girlish part of me wishes it were him. I crush that part and look at Eyvindr, whose grip on my arm has not eased.

"Yes?" I say, cool and quelling, and favour him with the merest arc of an eyebrow.

A smile curls above his red beard. "Where are you off to so early, Synne? The night's but half over, and you're no longer whoring for the Silver-tongue, so stay awhile." His eyes are dark and hard in his narrow face, fixed on mine.

"I do have other matters to attend to, Eyvindr." I want to carry on, to spear him with words of disdain, but anything I say he'll twist, and I've no patience for it tonight. I want to be away from here before Loki appears.

I thought I was ready to see him again, but just the knowledge of his presence in the shining city has my nerves twitching. Or am I ill-at-ease from Eyvindr's rough handling of my person? He jerks my arm now, dragging me a step closer, and lays his other hand along my face. I slap it aside. "Don't touch me."

"What, is a mere skald not good enough for you after fucking a Prince of Asgard? Don't be so arrogant, woman; know your place." He leers at me, a far cry from Fandral's frank and admiring appraisal of women. It's hideous.

"And what might that be?" I snap.

"My bed, if you like," he murmurs into my ear. I shudder, which he takes as license to stroke my neck.

"I don't like," I say plainly, pulling away from his touch. "Let me alone."

He's already angry, but now a frown creases his brow, and he starts to crush my wrist. "Then I'll have to teach you, won't I? Fucking the liesmith let you get above yourself. You're not Asgardian, Synne, no matter what Loki Silver-tongue led you to believe, and you don't have him to protect you anymore." His other hand is around the back of my neck, now, and I'm starting to think I'll have to hurt him.

If he weren't holding onto my wrist and neck, I would leave a fetch for him to flyte with and try to manhandle, but it was too late for that the moment I stepped blindly into his grasp. I try sweet reason once more. "Eyvindr, let me go."

His response is to spin me round, to try to twist my arm up behind my back. Abruptly, he stops moving, freezing in place.

"I wouldn't do that, were I you," Loki hisses. I can't see him, still awkwardly held by Eyvindr, but I know that tone in his voice. It means all wagers are off, and someone is likely to get hurt.

I don't know what to think. Was Loki seeking me out? His timely arrival would suggest it, but I have trouble believing it. I'm also not entirely sure to whom he was speaking. I may be the one in the most danger here.

Loki's next words disabuse me of that notion, at least. "Release the lady, as she asked." A beat, two, Eyvindr doesn't seem to move, and Loki continues silkily, "Or perhaps you'd prefer I cut your hands off?"

I'm freed with alacrity, now, and hastily turn about to see Loki with a dagger to Eyvindr's throat. I relish the look of fear on the skald's face; a little fear is only what he deserves for his cruelty. I open my mouth, but Loki speaks first, not looking at me.

"What have you to say for yourself, skald?" Loki's tone turns the title into insult, as if the word were a worm in his mouth. The dagger never moves, and Eyvindr is breathing very carefully.

"I d-don't know what you mean, my lord," he stammers. He watches me, eyes huge and face pale. I'll not help him, though.

"Beg the lady's pardon," Loki answers. A little blood appears under the dagger's edge. "In fact, kneel and beg properly." A long-fingered hand in the red curls forces Eyvindr to his knees before me.

"Please, Lady Synne, forgive me."

Loki prompts, "For?"

"Hurting you. Forcing you. Insulting you."

Loki smiles maliciously, and a swift swipe of the dagger shaves off about a third of Eyvindr's beard. "Was that so very hard?" Releasing the other man, he pulls a long curl taut and cuts it near the scalp. "I'll just take this as a token of your surrender. Now get out of my sight!"

The humiliated skald barely bothers to get to his feet before he's moving down the corridor in his haste to escape. A flick of his wrist and Loki makes the dagger disappear, finally looking at me. "Are you hurt, my lady?"

Yes, I want to answer, hurt by your deliberate distance, but I know why. I know why. It's the same reason I didn't want to see him tonight. "No, I'm not hurt," I say instead. "Thank you."

His smile softens into warmth, bringing the sparkle back to his eyes. "I'm glad. Do you wish an escort to your destination?"

I swallow carefully. This is very much not what I had expected, and I'm at a loss. "I - no, thank you."

"Then I bid you good night," he says, quiet, and offers me a courtly bow before striding off. I can only stare after him, wondering. 


	18. Chapter 18

He's grinding his teeth as he walks away, not even certain if he's angrier at Eyvindr, for being the complete arse he is, himself, for interfering in such a manner, or Synne, for being brought to his attention again before he was ready. Probably Eyvindr, the most deserving of the three. He wonders how much of that sort of thing she's dealt with while he was gone.

Some of the things Eyvindr was spouting were really vile. That's going to stop immediately.

In the meantime, Loki thinks, he has plans to make. With, all gods help him, his mother. Who is likely waiting for him.

Not only is Frigga waiting for him, so is Odin, and food. The sight of the table spread is almost enough to distract him from the presence of his father.

Almost.

Loki greets his mother with a hug and swift kiss, and trades nods with his father, who gestures at the table. "Eat, son," he rumbles. "I know you have not yet done so." His one eye twinkles.

Frigga waits until Loki fills a plate and takes the first bite before she speaks, hands folded in her lap. "I think I might guess the matter on which you wish to seek my advice, Loki."

He tries not to choke on the handful of grapes he just stuffed in his mouth. "Mother?" he manages, slightly gracelessly.

Odin places his hands on his wife's shoulders, and she reaches up to clasp them, both of them studying Loki. It's a little unnerving. "Loki," Odin begins, hesitates, and goes on, "do you love her?"

"Father?" He's actually really confused now.

"Don't play the fool with me, Loki. Answer the question."

He opens his mouth - and realises he has no idea what is about to come out of it. "I don't know?" he manages after a long silence.

Frigga frowns lightly. "What, precisely, were you planning to do, my son?"

He buries his face in his hands. "Make a big mistake, I think." Why does everything around him have to be so Hel-cursed complex? "I just want to be loved. Is that so much to ask?"

"Your father and I love you very much, as does your brother."

"That's not what I meant!" He's yanking at his own hair now, fingers scraping against his scalp.

"If it's just the physical release," Odin starts, and Loki interrupts, "I could have any girl in the palace if that was all I wanted!"

"What do you want, Loki?" His mother's voice is very gentle, as is the touch of her hand on his back.

"I want _her_! I _need_ her! This whole time, away from Asgard, I felt like something was missing. Something important. And it is! It's her! What is _wrong_ with me?" The words come pouring out in a torrent, swirling and swirling and never quite managing to capture the essence of his frustration. There's a long silence when he stops, until he looks up, to see his parents smiling at each other, practically glowing at each other.

Odin's eye shifts to Loki. "He'll do, my love," he tells his wife. Loki fancies he can see pride in that face. "He'll do."

As his father leaves the room, Loki looks at his mother, bewildered. "You're in love, dear," she tells him, still with that fond smile. She smooths his hair down from his frantic clawing until he pushes her hand away, ruffling it up again deliberately.

His face falls. "I'm going to completely ruin this, aren't I?"

"Not if you listen to your mother for once," she chides him. "_Court_ her, darling. Remind her of all the reasons you have been friends for so long. Be as winsome as you know how to be." Frigga kneels down before Loki, taking his hands in hers. "My son, be truthful with her, and you cannot fail."

He gapes at her. Rising, she shuts his mouth with a finger and taps his plate. "Finish your food." Just before she leaves the room, she looks back. Loki looks up inquiringly. "Start with a gift."


	19. Chapter 19

Loki's return has set me off-balance. Although I swore to myself I would not let him drive me from the courts, encountering him last night has my heart thundering and breath short.

I will not falter. This night I spent with my own thoughts, realised I too am guilty of what I accused Loki of. I've let him change me, make me what I was not, and it's time to be myself again. No more waste my time in the great hall; I've indulged myself enough.

What else did I study magic for, if not to help others? Let me show Loki what he lost. I am who I am, and though I love him, and will yet, I'll be myself, and remind him who that is.

I cross to the mirror, bracing myself on its edge and staring within. Pale green eyes, edged dark with weariness and lack of sleep, look back at me. My hair, pale gold, I've twined atop my head, and stray curls pour like slow honey down my neck. Oh, yes, I know what he sees when he looks at me. But there's more to me than beauty.

Feeling more myself than in days, I stick my tongue out at my reflection and reach for a brush. I'll make myself elegant and go beg engagement of my time in the healers' rooms.

* * *

There's always need for another pair of hands, even in Asgard's days of peace, with the healers, and mine are more steady than most. It's not something I ever thought on, being in Loki's orbit, and so Thor's, and the Warriors Three, but blood and pain I do not fear nor flinch at, and the smile of a pretty woman can do much for a young fighter. So I hold basins, bathe wounds, and lend magic where I may.

By day's end I'm weary to the bone, but more at ease within myself than I've been for this long while. Love is a glorious thing, but to be of use, I think now, is far better. I bid goodbye to Eir and Idun, promising to return on the morrow, to learn more of the magic of healing.

These halls are emptier than those I am wont to walk at this hour, but the peace is soothing to my mind and soul. There's an ache yet in my heart, but it's more than what it was yesterday that causes it, and the ache of caring for others, whom I can help, is easier to bear. I'll ease my own, in easing theirs.

So immersed in my own thoughts, I don't notice til I am nearly on him that Loki sits asleep before my rooms. He must have seen there for a long time, because his limbs are sprawled awry and the basket on his lap is nearly tipped to the floor. I can't suppress a fond smile. Half his dark hair has fallen across his face. I kneel and touch his hand, but he does not stir. With infinite care, I brush the strands out of his face, and see the dark circles beneath his eyes, and a healing mark across one cheekbone that I do not remember.

For the first time, I wonder where it was he went. I had thought it was coincidence, that he and Thor were from the courts at the same time, but now I am not sure. Were they somewhere together, then, easing Loki's pain? It would explain the mark; of course Thor's choice of distraction would be battle. Closing my eyes, I lay my fingers against the contusion and sweep magic into it, gentle as a spring breeze. It fades beneath my touch, leaving not even a faint scar.

When I am come back to myself, Loki is watching me, his face as expressionless as ever I've seen it. I withdraw my hand, moving slowly. With equal care, he reorganises himself, folding his legs lotus-fashion and placing the basket between us. He blinks, licks his lips, and looks away for a moment before he speaks.

"Forgive my rudeness. I meant only to be certain you received your gift in good time, but none could tell me where you were. I meant only to wait for a short while ... " he trails off, green eyes flicking away from my face again.

"My ... gift?" I ask. We have never exchanged gifts before; there seemed no need.

Loki touches the basket with one finger. "I brought this ... for you." He opens his mouth again, as if to add more, then closes it. He seems at a loss. Getting to his feet, he gestures me to rise, then picks up the basket, cradling it in both hands.

"What is it?" I enquire, my voice low.

He thrusts the basket at me; perforce I accept lest it fall to the ground. One hand reaches for me, before he turns away, saying hastily, "I hope you like her." Then he is gone, nearly running down the corridor. I can only frown down at the woven fibres in my hands.

I don't want to open it here, where anybody may come by; he seemed so ill-at-ease I want to keep it a secret too. Within the safety of my chambers, I set the basket down and lift the light lid, looking inside.

Curled up tightly, sound asleep, is a small, pale, fluffy kitten.


End file.
